


The Date Palm

by Norma_de_Plume



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Foreign Language, Idiots in Love, John Has Feelings, John is a Very Good Doctor, John's blog fans, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nosy Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, falling asleep together, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 01:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norma_de_Plume/pseuds/Norma_de_Plume
Summary: John has a patient at the clinic that starts the Baker Street Boys on a merry chase inside their own heads on nature of their, *shudder* FEELINGS for each other.Date palms curiously play an important role.





	The Date Palm

**Author's Note:**

> This for a FB prompt and my first endeavor into writing! Rah! Rah!
> 
> Prompt - Person A says something to person B in a foreign language, believing that person B does not/will not understand. Person A understands (or researches) the message and responds in the same language.

“Ah, you're back,” chirped Sherlock, rising enthusiastically from his languid repose across his armchair.  “Why must you disappear hours on end when I might NEED your assistance at any moment? It is simply intolerable.”

 

“Right. Because the universe revolves around you, Sherlock, not that you would know that, mind you, since you DELETED the whole thing. I was at WORK, you egotistical berk. Being productive, healing the sick, you know - doing my part for humankind,” John shot back testily.

 

“Boring. The herd could use a bit of thinning. Don’t argue. You know I’m right.” Sherlock pierced him with a pointed smirk and a slightly raised eyebrow.

 

John sensed this was a well worn path he had no intention of traversing tonight. Redirection was needed.

 

“I got your agar plates and those depression slides from Molly to keep you until you get the ones from Belgium that you like.”

 

John offered the bag to Sherlock, who immediately started rummaging through the contents. John then took the opportunity of the brief distraction to wander off into the kitchen to put kettle on. The rustling bag sounds abruptly stopped in the sitting room and alarm bells went off in the military man's head. Silence was usually not  such a golden thing in 221B. He knew this MUCH too well.  He craned his neck to see if he could spot the cause of the lack of noise on Sherlock’s part. The detective had abandoned the bag carelessly at his feet and was carefully scrutinizing a folded slip of white paper that he had discovered inside.

 

“Tell me about your clients today, John, “ he sharply inquired as he pinned John with one of his interrogative glares.

 

John knew that he should be on guard with such an abrupt change in topic, and the stare,  but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why THIS line of questioning could be potentially dangerous. What did HE know though. Idiot, right?

 

“Let’s see. I saw a family with a stomach virus, did a few med modifications, and...Oh, yes. A very nice Afghan grandmother and her granddaughter. The grandmother had badly sprained her wrist. Actually, it was quite interesting-”

 

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you, “ Sherlock interrupted.

 

“Shut it,” John admonished. “They came all the way up from Chatham to see me at the clinic. That was the first thing the granddaughter said. Her grandmother, without question, wanted to make sure that I was THE Dr. John Watson from the Army Captain’s blog. She would only see HIM. Apparently, she likes my stories. Well, our stories. It was like I had a groupie!”  He smiled.”Kind of nice, that,” John mused for a happy moment.

 

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

 

“ANYway,” John continued, “I did an Xray - nothing broken, thankfully, bandaged her up,  gave her anti inflammatories, and sent them on their way. Was a bit embarrassing though. She didn’t speak much English, so I tried out my Pashto on her. I hope I didn’t muck it up TOO badly. It’s been awhile,” he apologetically pondered. She HAD looked at him rather oddly at times. "I got that she had been her village's healer when she was in her younger days."

 

“Very interesting,”Sherlock interjected. “You can translate this then.” He thrust the folded piece of paper into John's hand.

 

“What’s this?” John puzzled rather stupidly aloud as he opened it at the creases and glanced down at it. “This is from the clinic; it’s got our address and letterhead on it.”

 

“Obviously,” deadpanned Sherlock as he rolled his eyes so hard he probably could see into the back of his own skull.

 

John ignored this as a matter of principle. On the paper was a few lines hastily scrawled in Pashto, one of the languages commonly spoken throughout Afghanistan and the neighboring areas. At least he THOUGHT it was Pashto. He had always spoken it better than read it. John scrunched his brow in concentration as he studied the letter strokes and squiggles. It didn't make much sense.

 

“Well??” barked Sherlock. “What does it say?” He had that jumpy, ill at ease quality about him now that he had been forced to wait.

 

John paused. He read aloud haltingly,

 

“تاسو ستاسو په لاس کې د زړه وکړي. د اوبو او ميلان لري او د خپل ځان د دا پروا او مينه به ستاسو د ميوه وي.”

 

Then in English.” You hold a lives, no, um, life in your hands. Water, tend and care for it, and love will be the fruit.” He faltered. “Love? That can't be right. She must have slipped this in my bag while I was out checking the results of her x-ray. But why, Sherlock? I'm a doctor, I suppose I do that, in an abstract way, sort of, tending, minding...” John started and trailed off uncertainly. “Love and fruit? What the hell is THAT about?” He looked up inquiringly to the taller man, but was too late.  No answer would be immediately forthcoming. Sherlock was the proverbial shark scenting blood on the water as he eagerly commandeered John's laptop and flopped himself in that elegant way he did, onto the sofa, fingers already flying across the keys.

 

“A most cryptic, although flowery message. We cannot weather another 'fan’ like I was burdened with. That would never do for my faithful blogger to be put into danger.” He dragged his focus from the computer for a brief moment to lock his penetrating verdigris gaze on John's.

 

John saw a brief flash of, dare he thought, concern? Trepidation? Worry? in his flatmate's expression. What the bloody hell was that about?

 

Sherlock spent the remainder of the evening on the sofa, tirelessly combing the internet for who knows what. John turned on the telly mindlessly, and joined his friend on the neighboring cushion as the younger man absorbed information. At one point, John leaned over to have a look at the screen. He saw tabs filled with maps of Pakistan and Iraq and Iran, Middle Eastern language sites, even an essay on women's social roles in rural post WWII Afghanistan. He sniggered quietly to himself and patted Sherlock's leg, as it was smashed up against his own, in a friendly manner, and went back to whatever idiocy Jeremy Clarkson had been up to.

 

“Dog and a bone,” he bemusedly thought.

 

If Sherlock had looked up at that exact moment, he would have seen the soft, affectionate gaze that John had briefly turned upon him. He was much too occupied for that right now though.

 

After some time, Sherlock became abruptly aware of a cool sensation on his leg as John got up from the sofa and announced that it was his bedtime. Sherlock frowned in consternation. Their legs had been side by side - was it the lack of warmth now? No. He recalled that John had touched the top of his leg as he had been working while the other man watched repeats of that ridiculous car show that he loved. Had John left his hand on Sherlock's leg the whole time? Strangely, the leg in question began to tingle a bit with that thought. He had been aware of the placement of the hand while using the laptop, but he did not find it objectionable. How unlike himself. The loss of the extra warmth John's palm had provided now felt empty and almost sharp- like it should just BE there. Sherlock shook his head, as if to physically clear it. “Transport,” he snorted with derision.

 

John changed his clothes for bed, all the while pondering distractedly about the older woman and Sherlock's reaction to her. He WAS a tad overprotective, wasn't he? John smiled to himself. Kind of nice, actually, though he could hardly blame Sherlock for seeing potential threats lurking everywhere when it came to the two of them. He got into bed, eyes growing heavy, barely aware that he was picturing the two of them sitting on the sofa tonight, pressed tightly together, Sherlock working manically on the laptop and John carelessly stroking his fingers contentedly along the subtly muscled top of Sherlock's thigh. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he drifted into sleep.

 

Sherlock worked into the night. The message the old woman had given John perplexed him. Around 3:30 a.m., he discovered something potentially important. He had scanned the note and had a translation done directly from words on the paper. It gave him a slightly different translation than what John had. Where John had said 'life’, the word was actually ‘heart’.  “You hold a heart in your hands. Water and tend and care for it with your own, (John had left that part out) and love will be your fruit.” What sort of dull sentiment was this? Whose heart was John holding? Was this woman a threat to John? A stalker? Sherlock lay on the sofa placing his palms together across his chest, fingers gently resting underneath his chin. This required further study. An hour or so passed before he realized how much better he thought when John was nearby and touching him. Like tonight. The doctor's short, sturdy fingers tracing patterns on his thigh idly, as he watched the telly and Sherlock worked. It made things seem clearer. Brighter even.

 

“Where did THAT come from?” he spoke aloud testily before he could stop himself. This was becoming more and more convoluted.

 

A week or so passed fairly uneventfully. Sherlock could not glean much more from the vexing note, and was becoming more and more aware of how much John already touched him. Why had he not noticed that before? A hand to the lower back as they went up the stairs, a slide of an arm across his shoulders as the older man brought his tea to him at the kitchen table in the morning. A nudge to an arm with the exchange of a smile.

 

They had both started to gravitate to the sofa in the evenings. Sherlock experimentally draped his legs across John's in a seemingly careless fashion as they read or watched a program. Seemingly careless at least until John started to caress the feet that were now nestled in his lap. The first time it happened, Sherlock sharply jerked his head towards John as he registered the sensation of fingers slowly inching their way along the sensitive skin of the dorsal and plantar aspects of his feet. John's attention was still on the television screen. Was he even noticing what he was doing? It felt nice, he allowed himself to consider. This continued on for a few nights until Sherlock decided further experimentation was in order. That evening, John sat on the sofa first. Sherlock carefully sauntered over to join him and instead of placing his feet across John's legs, he timidly- just for a moment - met John's inquiring gaze and then sat the opposite way.  He placed his head in John's lap facing into the room, grabbed the remote and picked something hastily at random. He both heard and felt John's body stiffen and suck in a startled breath. The detective held his own breath, stilled and after a few glacially slow moments, he felt John’s body relax and his fingers tentatively slide into his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and blew out a long, heavy puff of air. The fingers felt even better on his scalp than they had on his feet. They eased their way through his luxurious locks, stroking them languidly and in an almost sensual fashion. Without his permission, Sherlock's mouth let out a contented sigh and his head furrowed deeper into the warmth of John's lap. He was faintly aware of the low, husky chuckle that drifted down to his ears as he grew more and more content and comfortable.

 

“John usually uses that laugh on women he chats up in bars,” his brain distractedly categorized.

 

Sherlock then felt another hand rest gently on his rib cage. He twisted his head slightly up towards John and was met with a sleepy half-lidded gaze from the doctor's deep blue eyes. Sherlock smiled at the soft expression and shuddering slightly, slipped his head back down into John's lap.

 

That was all he remembered until he opened his eyes to the uncomfortable brightness that was hitting his face. It was morning light coming through the windows. John had slumped down in the night, resting his head on the arm of the sofa and Sherlock was now draped halfway on top of him, his head no longer in John's lap, but on his chest, with one of his long arms flung across it. He then became very aware that both of John's arms were wrapped around his own torso. Startled at this realization, Sherlock started to pull himself away from John's body, only to feel John tighten his grip on him in his sleep. Sherlock, after an anxious moment, relaxed his long frame back into the sleeping man's embrace. He was much too comfortable and enjoying the feel of this, so he closed his eyes and took in a deep lungful of morning sunshine and the delightful smell of John's skin wafting up to fill his nose and his thoughts. After a good half an hour, John begin to stir and they both looked a bit flushed as they peeled off of each other slowly, mumbled morning greetings and then set off in opposite directions in the flat - John to the bathroom for a shower and Sherlock to his microscope, just to clear his head a bit.

 

They had fallen asleep. Together. It wasn't uncomfortable. Not in the least. Sherlock lost himself in that thought. Curled up against John's body had been, well, extraordinary. Very much so.

 

John meanwhile, was doing some head clearing of his own. He showered and put on clean clothes all the while not being able to shake the, well, pleasure of waking up with Sherlock in his arms. Who would have thought that the tall, lanky, usually pain in the arse man would fit so nicely tucked against his own body?. No one had panicked or insulted anyone for doing such an idiotic thing. Just a quick blush that colored the younger man’s cheeks fetchingly as they untangled their limbs and separated. Sherlock just felt good against him. What did that mean?? John tried to take that quietly in and with the small shake, realized he'd been standing in his room half dressed for who-knows-how-long thinking about how warm and pliant and affecting Sherlock had felt curled around him. So much so, that he had feigned sleep when he felt Sherlock stir, just keep them together on the sofa a bit longer.

 

Finally done with dressing, John squared his shoulders, came down from his room and called out a quick goodbye to Sherlock as he closed the door and headed down the stairs and out into the street to the clinic.

 

\-------

The knock at the door downstairs startled Sherlock. How long has he been perched at the microscope doing NOTHING? When Mrs. Hudson failed to take care of the offending knocking, Sherlock headed down himself. He opened the door and was met with a short Afghan woman, most likely in her mid twenties holding a covered tray.

 

“What do you want?” he sneered.

 

“Is Dr. Watson home?” The young woman countered, pushing her way inside and peering around. Sherlock was taken aback by the woman's assertiveness and allowed her to enter.

 

“He is not here, obviously,” he started to lecture as the woman unbidden, began to mount the seventeen steps up to the flat. Sherlock chased after her trying to halt her progress, but the wily girl was quite swift. She reached the top and waltzed right into the sitting room, looking around for a surface in which to put her tray upon. She turned to face the looming detective that was right on her heels.

 

“You must be Sherlock Holmes then,” she slyly grinned up at him.”I am Vida Alimi. Dr. Watson treated my grandmother for a sprained wrist a few weeks ago. She made him these bolani as a thank you for his fine care.” She pointed to the tray as she spoke. Sherlock gingerly peeled back the cover to reveal the fragrant potato dumplings, still warm under the insulated top. “ Please let Dr. Watson know how excited she was to meet him and that she is much better now.”

 

Sherlock snapped back to attention. “Dr. Watson stated that your grandmother was some sort of healer in her village when she was young. Why would she seek medical attention from a western doctor then and more importantly, why one very specific doctor quite a distance from her home?” Sherlock countered Vida acilly.

 

“A healer?” she scoffed. “Where did you get such an idea?”

 

Sherlock's face frowned distractedly. “Dr. Watson relayed that he spoke to your grandmother a bit in her native language before he had to defer to your translations.”

 

Oh. Sherlock stopped. John had said that his Pashto was rusty. So. Another word mistranslated.

 

 

“What DID your grandmother do in her village then?” Sherlock countered carefully, trying to level her with a frosty glare. Vida paused for a moment before she spoke. Sherlock could almost say she looked a tad embarrassed.

 

“She was a Matchmaker. She helped arrange marriages back when that is what was done. She said she always tried to find love matches, though sometimes that was more difficult, but she felt it was important. That and she's a hopeless romantic,” Vida shrugged with a touch of affection. “I see you got her message though. She adores being dramatically unfathomable. Bloody nuisance most of the time when she gets going.”

 

Message? Sherlock taken briefly aback by that statement. The note wasn't for John? Think. It was in the bag of lab supplies, but who would know it was not intended for John's use, John a doctor, bag on HIS desk...

 

“Ah, of course. She is a reader of his blog so she knows about my experiments and therefore, those items must have been intended for my use, so quite obviously, he would not notice an addition to them. Clever. “

 

“ I pilfered the letterhead paper and a pen from his desk for her, and she tucked it in the bag when she was done, “ Vida beamed. "She loves Dr. Watson's accounts of your work. It is quite apparent that he cares about you a great deal. It comes across in his words."

 

“But why, if that was her intention all along, did she not come with a note already written?”

 

Vida shrugged. “She really wanted to meet him, size him up. Besides, she knew that the paper from the clinic would intrigue YOU. It was a quick decision that worked. Obviously.” Sherlock could tell she enjoyed throwing his word back at him.

 

“And what of me? She had no desire to, 'size ME up’?” The faint pout was apparent on the detective’s full lips as he crossed his arms across his chest mulishly.

 

.

“What do you think I'm here for?” Vida shot him a feral look and laughed. “I have an other message for you, Mr. Holmes. Do you know much about planting a date palm?"

 

 

Sherlock's face took on slightly bored and irritated expression. "The date palm, _Phoenix dactlifera_ , requires a great deal of painstaking care to grow properly.”

 

“Yes,” Vida continued. “Easy to germinate, but requires meticulous hand pollination and precise measured watering to set fruits and then to have them mature and ripen. Insects and other pests can destroy an entire grove. But the palm will faithfully produce fruit and shade and life for many, many years with the proper conditions. You hold that seed in your hand, Mr. Holmes. Think of it as a heart. THE heart. The caretaker must be very passionate and vigilant about his date grove. Tend it wisely.

.

With that, the young woman smiled knowingly at Sherlock. “My grandmother thanks you both for the enjoyment of reading your adventures and for Dr. Watson's attendance of her injury. She hopes you both will give this matter due consideration.” She turned and walked down the stairs, shutting the front door quietly behind her.

 

Sherlock stood mutely for about 15 minutes on the spot. The note was for him? HE held John's heart? How? All the tripe about caring and nurturing the palm was sentimental foolhardiness - what would come of it? John didn't look at him in that way. Did he? Could he? The tall, brooding man sank into his chair in heavy contemplation for the rest of the afternoon and hardly stirred until John returned home that evening.

 

\------

 

“We had a visitor,” Sherlock quietly intoned from his chair in a deceptively neutral manner.

 

“Oh?” John distractedly inquired while hanging up his coat.

 

“The granddaughter of the Afghan woman you treated. She bought a present.” Sherlock nodded his head slightly in the direction of the table where the tray still sat. John crossed the room to investigate.

 

“Bolani! Oh, I loved these things over there.” John eagerly reached to select a portion, but his hand was suddenly arrested by the sound of paper hitting the floor. He must have disturbed it when he opened the top of the tray. “Another note?” he tiredly sighed. “What did she write to send you off on a wild goose chase THIS time? There was nothing sinister about that last one you know, just some silly twaddle about fruit and lives from a sweet but lonely old woman." It was his turn to roll his eyes heavenward, and he enjoyed it.

 

Sherlock set his face very blandly. “I think her note was quite thought-provoking actually, he flatly commented, not looking at John directly as he spoke. That set John's alarm bells ringing again. He bent at the waist and handed the paper from the floor to Sherlock cautiously.

 

“What does it say then? I know you opened it and looked up what it says without me already. And what was so amazing about the first one anyway?” John folded his arms across his chest and waited warily. Sherlock slowly stood to take the offered paper. He stepped into John's space, and without consulting the note in his hand, started to speak.

 

After a moment, John shook his head muzzily and looked up at Sherlock who seemed to be closer to him than he was when he first started talking. “What was that about a needing the right conditions  to grow a date palm? Is that what she wrote? You really are talking rubbish, I see...” The last syllable became a bit stuck in John’s throat as incredibly, he felt Sherlock's fingers graze his cheek gently before settling there. It was warm and comforting and yet almost electric. Oddly, there were no clanging alarm bells going off. John felt like it belonged there somehow. He looked up, confused, into Sherlock's eyes that seemed to be asking an unspoken question.

 

“Why would she send me a message about growing dates?” John's head start to swim a bit as Sherlock's thumb began to carefully caress the skin in which it rested on. He registered as it slid down to continue its exploration, next resting upon John's lower lip, slowly stroking it back and forth.

 

“You misunderstand, John,” Sherlock rumbled in his impossibly deep baritone tones. The finger on John's lip was simply intoxicating. John could hardly think as he sank into the sensation, feeling as though he was right on the edge of something. Something so very close…

 

The younger man continued, breath hitching a bit as he locked his gaze on John's again. “She didn't write all that. It was just an explanation. It makes sense now John. I wrote this note. The one that I'm holding right now. Tell me if I'm saying it properly.”

 

The Pashto words rolled off Sherlock's tongue like warm, sweet rain.

 

“ما ښکل کړه."

 

John's eyes widened at the words and he felt his mouth part slightly and his pulse rate jump. Sherlock's head lowered ever so slowly towards his. The detective’s lips grazed the corner of his mouth hesitantly before John breathed in deeply, raised his hands to clasp behind Sherlock's neck to bring their lips together completely. Shuttering in surprise and relief, Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly around John to pull him closer, deepening the kiss and allowing the slip of paper to flutter unheeded to the floor.

 

It landed face up, revealing just two words written haltingly in the loopy script of the Pashto tongue. _Kiss me_. Two words that Sherlock had both written and spoken to John. Two words that would change their lives and hopefully take hold and flourish...

 

\------

 

Vida returned home that afternoon. Her grandmother was at her usual place at the computer, fondly combing through back cases on John's blog. She lifted her head expectantly to her granddaughter. The younger woman just smiled. “You've still got it, Grandmother. The seed has already set root. Heavens, now you've got ME using your crazy heavy-handed horticultural analogies too.”

 

“Did you do the seed is a heart bit?” the older woman pressed. “It is always effective. People love a melodramatic image to set their teeth into.”

 

“Yes, Grandmother, I did just as you would have.” Vida murmured. She shook her head ruefully and walked over to kiss her grandmother's cheek dotingly. The old woman snorted softly.

 

“I don't know what you are talking about. I hate dates.”

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this first foray into the writing universe. Be a little kind, I implore of you. :) Comments and suggestions or just fun talk about Johnlock in general are welcomed heartily.
> 
> The game is ALWAYS on.


End file.
